


The Things They Carried

by Ephemeral_Everlast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Battle, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:46:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ephemeral_Everlast/pseuds/Ephemeral_Everlast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They saved the world once together, twice if they were counting their run-in with the Leviathan: this was nothing they couldn’t handle at each others' sides, the perfect and imperfect team against what went bump in the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things They Carried

**Author's Note:**

> Post episode 17 of Season 8/sgr8. Trials and tribulations, resolutions and compromise.

It was supposed to be him. He was supposed to be the one to end this reign of demon-filled, ugly-ass terror. He was the one who would smirk, his upper-lip curling into a shit-eating grin with a flash of teeth while he slammed the Gates of Hell in Crowley’s face, knowing that the time for demons to walk amongst men was over, aside from the occasional nasty haunting crossroads and truck-stops. It was supposed to be him who looked in the face of Death – figuratively, for he knew what the guy looked like – wink, and say “not today” for there was no way he was going to go out with anything less than dramatic fanfare, a good and noble death if he was to die after the trials.

It was supposed to be _him_ ; not Sammy, never Sammy. Sam, who only wanted normalcy, Sam who needed to move on with his life without a knife in one hand and a shotgun in the other, Sam who had tasted the splendor of a life of consistency, the knowledge of roots without the forcefulness of being uplifted time and again on ever-rotting soil, just to be an unwilling participant in a war he never signed up for. Sam, who deserved a life without the blood and the hardened edge of living that hunters had to make themselves accustomed to as quickly as they were able to, before the life killed them before they had even begun to make a difference.

It was too late for supposed-tos and had-to-bes and what-ifs; there was only the endless expanse of road that, to Dean’s dismay, was looking a little-too close to an ending for his liking. The divergence would begin, whether he liked it or not. He had defied destiny before, for if he hadn’t, he would be mute, his throat raw from screaming within himself as Michael took over his body to eradicate and purge the world of what he had spent his entire life chasing and killing; but this was something he had never given much credence to, for it was not something hunters had at their beck and call: time, that elusive thought that slipped through hunters’ fingers as their palms were stained, bloody and smeared with the guts of something less-than-savory on their way down.  
Pulling others down into their grave; what a way of acknowledging that you had gone down without a fight. 

It would be a farewell before he had even had the chance to begin. That he was more than prepared for, for it was what remained: one last fight, one last ride, one last honorable pursuit to kill those sons of bitches and put them away for good. He was the killer, the hunter, the one who chose this. Sammy hadn’t; he had dragged him back into this more times than he could count because he hadn’t wanted to go it alone. An endless stretch of highway was perfect, but in solitude the night could appear a little too- dark, a little too-black for him to take comfort in. Starless and infinite, with the ghosts of those he could not save clamoring for attention in his head, driving him mad, where not even Zeppelin could drown out their screams.

That was why it was called a trial: no picnic, no easy way out. He had suffered through worse before, far worse than some measly tests designed by God, He Who Skipped Out of Responsibility and by all accounts, should have been held responsible for what happened to Heaven, to Hell, to all of the Angels and their Garrisons and acknowledge the aftermath. All on choice, for there was no such thing as predestination; he and Sam were testament enough to that belief. And he chose to do this on his own, lest Sammy get pulled into another one of his messes. Killing a hell-hound, no big. 

At least that was what he thought before blood as black as oil poured on Sam’s chest, bathing him in the what should have stained his jacket, should have made him choke for it had gotten in his lungs, between his teeth and within his sinuses to where he’d be snorting black for days in tissues. _It should have been him_. 

But it wasn’t and that was something he was just going to have to deal with; but that didn’t mean that he would let Sam go it alone like he had intended for himself. They saved the world once together, twice if they were counting their run-in with the Leviathan: this was nothing they couldn’t handle at each other’s sides, the perfect and imperfect team against what went bump in the night. 

It was with no trace of reluctance that they fell together, meshing in a sloppy heap of limbs and groping hands, mouths pressed against teeth and tongues parting the seams of lips all to know opposite truths. For Sam, to know the freedom that he sought whenever they found themselves in the same bed, in the same space in the back of the Impala that always fucked up his lower back but was worth it in the end. For Dean, it was to know what his brother was experiencing, for there was always some whispered sentiment spoken during the soporific post-coital heap that they became, some glimmer of a clue that would lead him to the pot of gold that was what Sam never said, that forced quiet and almost perfect, “I’m fine, yeah, I’m fine.”

There was no such thing as silence afterwards unless they had fallen asleep at the same time. That never happened, for they always remained awake, the first time out of shame when he heard Sam murmuring prayers to a God that for all he knew, was taking jello-shots off of some blonde-chick’s tanned stomach in Malibu, begging Him not to punish them for it was only done out of love. That was when he picked up his brother’s head none-too gently and silenced his tongue with his mouth, cleansing his spirit of all of the doubt that had been brewing and festering to a slow-simmer and a bubble that if it popped, would kill the both of them. There was no time for moral dilemmas, not when they had found one another like this. 

This time, Dean found his hands over Sam’s shoulder blades, caressing the bones over the sand-colored skin, memorizing every freckle, every splotch of hair or odd-patterned scar that had accumulated there over the years. He was a canvas of both destruction and rebirth, the proof that a mere man, a soul so pure and damaged could return, could survive regardless of what chased after every remnant of his life. He was a walking answer, liberation and compassion all rolled into a ray that sliced through his own black that burned straight into the heart of the midnight hours when coffee was running low and the walls seemed to be closing in on him. He was his safe-haven, a sanctuary when he buried his face in his neck, chomping with his teeth or lavishing breathless praises against his skin. He was everything that he could not be, the photo negative of what defined him and what pushed him onward, that speck of light that he had never been able to see on his own, not without Sam’s guidance to point out that there, just past Ursa Minor and something that looked like a horse if he connected the dots right, was what he had seen all along, what had urged him to pray every day for their safety and for their missions to go well, to keep them well-fed, alert, and up to face the challenge. 

“I never wanted this on your shoulders,” he said, his hands working out a knot in Sam’s neck, all the while keeping him especially pinned on his mattress – for memory foam was a real treat to make love on- with a sturdy application of weight with his hips. 

“I know,” Sam managed to hiss between his teeth, the birth of a sigh of contentment parting his lips. “But it’s alright; I’m not coughing up blood as often.”

This made Dean snort through his nose, his eyes narrowing as he looked to the gold of Sam’s skin, the sun in contrast to his moon, acknowledging their experience, that the bracketing of Sam’s spine was that road he had referred to, that endless path that would lead to a place that might resemble peace if he could lay his weapons down long enough to know. For him, the fight would never be over, for there would always be something springing up, like a diseased blossom wriggling up from the earth for him to cut the head off of and destroy it from where it had been conceived. For Sam however, that was why he fought: to make sure he never had to go through this again, to make sure he was safe.  
The life was his; not Sam’s.

“Then our problems are pretty much over then,” he began, smoothing the heel of his palms down to Sam’s lower back, spreading his fingers out upon the skin that had to have been polished with something, because how the hell could it shine like _that_?

“I can do this with you; that was the promise, we-“ Sam inhaled, his head rolling backwards as Dean applied pressure to his hips, squeezing and pumping until he was all-but writhing against the mattress.  
Dean took that moment to flip his brother until they were face-to-face with one another, eyes tracing the hollow column of his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing furiously, his length dripping with the warmth they had created with their tender touches and the massage Dean had given to him. Never had he seen anything more beautiful, nothing more pure than his baby brother, the sacrificial lamb who would walk out of this alive, no matter what. 

This was his reason to keep on this road, to run if he had to as the miles stretched on, as the signs that stated that he was leaving civilization raced by his rearview mirrors: this one, the one he had sworn to protect.

“Yes, together. No if ands or buts; you tell me if something, if anything happens, if you begin to hear funny noises, if you start seeing red, if you feel strange, if y-“ It was Sam’s turn to silence him now, his brother’s hands gripping his face as their tongues met in a dance of fire and sunlight, white-hot and as sweet as sin. 

It was Sam’s turn to shut him up while he carried him on this endless stretch of road, the thought of one more mile, and then two, and then three, and then four hundred promising them victory, a way to end this not only as mortal men, but as brothers who would do all in their power to ensure the survival of this world once more.  


It was supposed to be that way; that was a destiny Dean could believe in.

~-~-~

_…I sank into the sea_

_Wrapped in piano strings_

_Few words could open me_

_But you knew them all…_


End file.
